


The Game

by Chiclet



Category: Aion (Video Game)
Genre: One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-19
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-08-09 16:35:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7809226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chiclet/pseuds/Chiclet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Kaiika's backstory. God, I loved her for awhile.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Game

This time, he didn't even see it coming.

The impact from behind sent him sprawling, barking his knees painfully against the paving stones. He didn’t look; just scrambled to the side, scraping his hands as well for his efforts as he lurched to get out of the way. Fierce gold metal gleamed from the corner of his eye.

From behind, the spikes rising from the shoulders of the warrior's armor were wicked curves, almost twice again as wide as the man himself and Asta gulped, cringing. He had a vision of himself impaled on one. He glanced around, heart racing, but no one raised their voice in protest of his near injury and the warrior himself certainly hadn't stopped; hadn’t in fact even looked down. Nobody even seemed to have noticed, let alone cared, that he’d nearly died in the last four seconds. Almost snuffed out of his mortal existence by yet another brax in armor.

Asta straightened, already feeling the newest bruise. Nothing his grandfather had ever said about daevas and their sky-home had prepared him for this. In fact, he was starting to believe that most of what his grandfather had told him had been made up out of odella smoke and a memory exaggerated by a lake full of time.  In grandfather’s stories, daeva were bursting with righteous good, eager to serve, humbly performing the most menial of tasks in the name of Aion and Elysea. He’d always pictured them as something like the priest at the Nobelium in the center of town, only brighter of course, and younger.

He'd been here seven weeks already and he hadn't even met the one who'd gotten him his job in Sanctum, let alone met any of them within spitting distance of humble. His masters were full of impossible clouds in their heads, with demands for this spice, or that dainty fresh from the market and no, they weren’t going to interrupt themselves to do it when they had Asta now. Oh, absolutely none of it had gone anywhere near like he’d imagined, right from the very start when he’d stumbled off the airship ramp and hadn’t immediately ascended. His dreams had definitely never included little details like being nearly stabbed to death by somebody's clothing.

One thing his grandfather had gotten right, though - Sanctum was colossal. Her towers reached like white fingers high into the air as if to pull Asmodae out of the sky, with a market so large he couldn't see across it, sometimes noisy enough to count as a small ocean. He'd never even known there were so many shugos in the whole of Elysea, let alone congregated here trying to sell things he had no names for. Back home, he'd have been lucky to see a trader band come through twice in the same year.

And daevas - daevas here were as thick as lice on pinkbeaks.

Asta straightened himself as best he could, brushing the dust and small grit from his scuffed hands. He sucked on a tiny wound as he re-oriented. He still had two deliveries to make for one of the masters before he could return to the other, and the longer he took, the less kinah he’d end up with.

With an wary eye out for more armored brax, he stepped back into the swirl of the crowd.

 

* * *

 

It was the noise that drew him. It was never quiet in Sanctum, not like back home where even the dirt went to sleep as soon as the sun was eclipsed by the Tower,  but it did get calmer as the citizens finished their days and went to find rest or nourishment - or entertainment.

The fried ruko sat nicely in his belly as he drifted towards the sounds. It was ears and luck that got him there more than anything else. A little narrow walkway between two buildings, laced with passways overhead that linked one side to the other for those the didn’t want to step down to the street. It was as close to shadow as it ever got here, which wasn’t saying much. The end of the corridor looked like it opened up into a reasonably sized courtyard and there was some sort of crowd gathering. Two people brushed past him, chattering in a dialect he didn’t understand.

With a shrug, Asta followed.

People were milling around, thankfully none of them in bruising armor and even more hung over the silverworked lattices of the balconies above. Asta had no idea what was going on. Nobody took exception to his presence though, so whatever was happening, it couldn’t be a private party. There wasn’t even any music, just the sound of people talking and laughter.

Curious now more than anything, he wiggled through the taller bodies towards the center, one hand hovering near his chest to protect the small drawstring pouch under his shirt from pickpockets. He’d learned that one pretty fast.

He still didn’t get it though, when a spot opened up in front of him and suddenly there weren’t any more people blocking the view. He was stopped by a twist of fabric knotted between what looked like small birdbaths that had been wrestled into place. Other statuary looked equally out of place, some with leather strips marking out a boundary.

It had to be some sort of contest.  An impressively large daeva stood just inside one end of the makeshift arena, waving his arms and joking with his friends. A roar went up from that side as the daeva made some comment and Asta saw money changing hands in the crowd. They had to be the ones making the noise he’d heard a street over.  He had to be a priest or mage perhaps because his robes were woven with enough aether that Asta was half surprised that he wasn’t floating off the ground naturally. Facing him nearly at the other side of the courtyard, maybe six wingspans away was a youth, perhaps a boy but it might have been a girl for all Asta could tell. He or she was wearing a tailor’s apron, good quality, but nothing like the mage’s clothing.

Asta scratched behind his ear. Had they both come right from work from opposite ends of Sanctum?

“Which one you fancy?” The voice over his shoulder was bright as bells as somebody squirmed into place next to him. “I nearly didn’t make it, only just heard.”

“What?”

“Which one you fancy, wheat for brains,” was the answer. “It’s not like the choices are overwhelming.” He looked down in astonishment but all he got was a view of blue-sea hair as the girl craned her neck to stare away from him, obviously checking out one end of the competition -  because that had to be what it was. He looked again too, but nothing had changed. Big daeva, one side. Little mouse in the other. She swiveled her head the other way and he finally got a pert profile, an upturned nose and what might have been dusting of freckles. An earring made of pale bone bobbed in one ear. She was maybe his age, just about his height. Her lips pursed in a calculating concentration he was pretty sure had never appeared on his face.

“I don’t... fancy anything. I have no idea what’s happening,” he finally admitted.

“Really? Well, allow me to fill you in! On this side,” she chirped, waving an arm under his nose, “is the impressively full of himself Berela, backed by enough piousness to date any Empyrean you care to name... although only the dead ones could probably stand him long enough to get past the rhetoric. Don’t let looks fool you though, he’s fast as fire. He’s flown patrol in the Abyss and nothing beats combat reflexes.”

“Right. Flown in the Abyss. Really fast.”

“Your words to Aion’s saintly feet. Now, over here we’ve got the desperately plucky Tornoa who absolutely needs a win in order his save his hide, since somebody shorted the changebox last night while he was supposed to be watching it. I just happen to know this, of course. I also happen to know what he _was_ watching instead of the changebox and how much he paid her for it - but I’ll spare you the salacious details.”

“... What?” Asta knew that wasn’t the best answer he’d ever come up with as soon as the girl speared him with an amused eye.  It changed to appraisal though, pretty quickly and Asta felt his face warm although whether it was for what she’d said or something else, he couldn’t have said. He looked away.

It might have been his imagination but he thought felt her shift a little closer. “So what do you wanna wager, honeyblossom? We can stick with kinah.”

“Look, I’m not betting. I don’t even know what I’m betting on.” He wasn’t right off the farm, he’d been to the arena a few times. He looked again at the contestants, even as a third party entered the area by the simple expedient of stepping over the flimsy barricade. “But my money’s on the big daeva... Berela.” If it was staves, the mage-priest had reach and strength. If it was magic, the robes alone proclaimed skill and mastery. It wasn’t going to be a footrace, there wasn’t enough room. He definitely didn’t think they were going to whip out needles and make kerchiefs, which looked like all the other side could do.

“I’ll give you three to one odds that Tornoa takes it. Triple your money in five minutes, blossom, can’t go wrong.” A finger tapped his arm. He looked over.

“I don’t think.... "

“How about three to half? You win, you get three times your wager. I win, I take half of what you got.” The smile was a reckless challenge and a strand of blue hair like a stray feather curled against her cheek. She nodded her head. “Best odds you’ll get for the rest of your life.”

He hesitated still. It didn’t sound bad. He could afford half of what he had.  And the big daeva was incredibly impressive. And she was just staring at him, as if knowing he was going to back down. He could see it in her eyes.

“Hurry up, sunchild, they’re about to call it.”

His back stiffened. “Okay. Okay, fine, you’re on!”

The crow of laughter almost made up for the suddenly sinking feeling in his stomach. His new companion shot a hand up, wafting a scent of flowers and dust. “Zakun... ZaKUN!”

“Call it!” was the answering roar. “Last in, hurry!” Asta watched the third man step between the two contestants, something held in his hand.

“Down for ten on Tor, rolling odds!”

“Ten on Tor, Aion bury your carcass child, rolling! Who matches?! Last in, hurry!”

Two voices, four, shouted and there was a flurry of sudden side betting. The referee or judge or whatever he was held up his hand, and Asta saw he was holding a delicate round sphere, half occluded by white. He said something but Asta couldn’t hear.

The priestly-mage Berela stepped forward, flexing his wrists, making the ornate sleeves of his robe spangle with light. “Ready, Lum. This is going to be fast, so get ready to duck!”  The youth stepped forward as well but only nodded. Asta saw his or her throat move though before a look of concentration settled over their face. Delicate hands came up, poised in the air.

“Ground touch is a loss, contact to anyone other than your opponent is a loss, destruction of the ball without contact is a loss, half forfeit. Agreed?” Lum took the nods as acceptance and stepped back a half pace, lowering his arm so the sphere was between the two contestants. That was all the warning there was. “Go.”

The ball dropped two inches, curved left and streaked like a screaming pluma for the tailor. Tornoa twisted his-her hands and the ball went straight up, a scant few inches from their nose. Asta barely spotted it before it was gone again, skipping like a deranged elroco around the ring. The crowd yelled encouragement or insults as one side or the other appeared to be winning. It zoomed right over his head a minute later as if desperate to escape before reversing direction and he ducked, afraid of being brained. His companion was yelling with the rest, words of encouragement and advice.

He didn’t even see it coming. One second the ball was cavorting in the air, doing it’s best impression of Dance of the Sages, the next it was gone and the big daeva was roaring, the front of his robe smeared with white. Even as Asta watched, surprised at the sudden end, a gob dripped from the cloth to plop on the ground.

Clotted cream?

“I knew it! Never let combat reflexes scare you off the mark, sunsweets. This game takes delicacy and patterns to spot the aether currents, something a mumble-brained chanter like Bery couldn’t spot if you hit him in the face with it like a fish. A light touch wins this game, blown sugar’s as delicate as a lady’s underwear! Now pay up quick - Zak’s gonna pretend he didn’t hear my wager if I don’t pin his feet to the ground.”

He fumbled with his pouch. A second later, he was down a hundred kinah and no wiser  for the experience. “Hey... hey!” he yelled as the girl started to slide away. “I never got  your name.”

“So sweet of you to ask!” She kissed one of his coins, and flipped it back to him. He caught it without thinking. “Kaiika.”

“Will I see you again?”

If there was an answer, he didn’t hear it.


End file.
